I didn't care for the protagonist (based on the one chapter of this I read, which is probably all I'll ever read of this book because frankly I didn't care for the plot, either). He was too hedonistic and misogynistic and egotistical and generally unlikeable. I guess the character was well-developed and believable in his overwhelming disgustingness, but it wasn't particularly comforting or enjoyable to read. Even with the nifty references to Englishness which I got to feel worldly and London-nostalgic for understanding...

The high point was pretty much the meta-fictional inclusion of an author character named Martin Amis, whose father was also an author and who seemed to be disdainful toward his own character. Which was amusing. I don't know if he was supposed to come off as being in control of his character within the story, but I was comforted by the inclusion of the author so that the protagonist's narrative voice could be reinforced as *not* that of Amis and therefore *not* evidence of a depraved humanity. Although the little discussion of where authors get their stories/ideas from kind of calls into question the whole construction of this character and his world and experiences--and how it relates to the author--by having the character confront the author about his motivations. So that was interesting. But the ucky protagonist was definitely too ucky for me to want to read an entire novel from his perspective. About his ucky life. No thanks.